8

Virgile pulled into the Château de Pray parking lot and turned off the engine. Benjamin roused himself and opened the passenger-side door. Virgile stopped him before he could step out.

“Ah, boss, could I borrow your car for a bit?”

“Why do you need the car, son?”

“I have to run an errand.”

“What kind of errand?” Benjamin was beginning to look annoyed.

Virgile had come up with a reason as soon as Benjamin handed him the car keys. “I know you won't think it's important, boss, but I forgot my hair gel.”

Now Benjamin was clearly annoyed. “A special trip for hair gel? What is it with you young men? Special gels, cleansers, a hydrating this, a soothing that. What happened to soap and water and a decent haircut like mine?”

“You're right, boss. I should give it some thought.”

Benjamin sighed. “All right, son. Take the car. Get your hair gel or whatever. I’m going inside now to take my nap.”

Pleased to have gotten that out of the way, Virgile sped out of the parking lot and drove to Tours. He pulled out his cell phone to call the hospital for Simone’s room number, but he thought better of it. He was unfamiliar with the privacy policy and didn’t want to deal with uninvited questions. Arriving at the hospital, he walked nonchalantly past the visitors’ desk and security guards. He found an out-of-the-way directory and located the intensive-care unit. It was on the second floor. Virgile opened the door to the stairwell and looked up and down the hall before entering. He barely registered the tall, well-built man in a polo shirt and jeans who was hurrying away in the distance.

Virgile took the stairs two at a time and breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted two visitors being buzzed into the intensive-care unit. Smiling, he slipped in behind them. He circumvented the central nurses’ station and poked his head around the curtain of each doorway until he found her.

Virgile’s heart sank. She was as still as a corpse and had so many intravenous lines going into her, he didn’t have it in him to count them all. Surrounded by machines and IV bags, she looked tiny and frail. Her forearms were already bruised from the needles, and her long blond hair was matted against her head. Virgile stared at her hands, swollen from the fluids they were giving her. He resisted an urge to reach out and stroke her arm to let her know a friend was there. He was afraid of hurting her.

Virgile looked over at an aide in scrubs, who was scribbling something on a clipboard. He wanted to ask how Simone was doing, but her back was turned. She didn’t even acknowledge him when he cleared his throat. A second later, she scurried out of the room.

“Must be busy,” he muttered.

No sooner had he pulled a chair over to Simone’s bedside than a nurse in similar floral-print scrubs came in, pushing a computer cart. Virgile guessed she was about thirty. This one smiled as she stepped around him to check Simone’s IV bags.

“Am I in the way?” he asked, starting to scoot the chair toward the wall.

“Not at all,” the nurse answered. “You’re fine.”

“Fine,” Virgile said to himself. “At least someone is.”

He ventured his question. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s still critical, but she’s stable, and that’s good.”

Virgile didn’t want to risk asking about the treatment plan and just nodded.

The nurse walked back to her computer and entered some numbers. “I’m surprised,” she said, still looking at the screen. “I thought we’d be mobbed with well-wishers. But you and that other fellow are the only ones who’ve been up here. Oh yes, a doctor friend of Mr. Navarre’s stopped in.”

“What about the photographers and reporters?” Virgile asked.

“Oh, the security people would stop anyone with a microphone or camera—at least one they could see. Nope, it’s been very quiet.”

“You mentioned another fellow?”

“Yeah, a good-looking guy. Tall, well-built, in a polo shirt. He had a man bun. He was here just before you came. I thought maybe he was her boyfriend, but then I remembered she was dating Navarre. They were making a movie around here.”

“A muscular guy with a bun, you say.” The image of the man in the ground-floor hallway flashed in Virgile’s head. “Did you catch his name?”

“No, I’ve got too much to do to chat much with visitors. He did say he worked behind the scenes in movies or television, I don’t remember which.”

The nurse said good-bye and wheeled her computer cart out of the room.

“Why was Fabrice here?” he whispered, hoping against hope that Simone would turn her head and answer. As far as Virgile knew, she had never met him. Or had she? Had she danced with Fabrice the same way she’d danced with him? Was the cameraman just as mesmerized? Or was there another reason he’d come to the hospital?

Virgile filed the question away and gazed at the unconscious young woman. She looked so isolated, so alone, and so vulnerable.

Feeling a wave of sympathy, he got up and reached over to smooth her hair. He pushed past his anxiety and took her hand. Maybe she would squeeze his. Nothing happened.

Promising to return, he left the room and walked out of the hospital. He looked around the grounds for signs of news people, maybe even Fabrice. All he saw were hospital workers coming off their shift. He pulled out Benjamin’s car key and drove back to Château de Pray. They were scheduled to spend several more days with Liza, Fabrice, and Hugo. He’d find out why the brawny cameraman was so interested in Simone Margerolle.